


Jacob and the Angel

by ComplicatedLight



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2017-12-31 23:01:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComplicatedLight/pseuds/ComplicatedLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How is it that we can know someone - really know them, and yet be blind to the most fundamental things about them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Boys of Summer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lindenharp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindenharp/gifts).
  * Inspired by [If I Speed Away](https://archiveofourown.org/works/511506) by [Lindenharp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindenharp/pseuds/Lindenharp). 



> I fell in love with Lindenharp's beautiful fic _If I Speed Away_ when I first read it, and have returned to it many times since. This fic is inspired by _If I Speed Away_ , and with kind permission includes a couple of elements from the universe created by Lindenharp.
> 
> Thanks also to Lindenharp for supportive beta-ing - all errors and oddities remain my own, of course.
> 
> I'll be posting a chapter a day for the next three days. The main tag won't make sense till the final chapter.
> 
> Three cover versions of well-known songs are referred to in the first chapter. In case - like Robbie - you're not familiar with these versions, and you're interested, here are links to performances of the songs:
> 
> [Tainted Love](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G-6oybwzBOY)  
> [The Boys of Summer](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aPMG8nMgTag)  
> [Hounds of Love](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uuPVM6xMGwc)

“How d’ya fancy a weekend at the seaside, Sergeant?” 

Lewis is sat behind his desk, leaning back in his chair, watching James as he hurries into the office bearing proper coffee from the shop round the corner. The coffee is by way of a thank you to his governor for covering for him while he dashed across town to buy a new set of strings for his beloved guitar. The D string broke last night, and he’s known for a while that the G is on the way out too, but he’s been putting off buying replacements. He doesn’t like the feel of new ones—takes him a long time to adjust. But now he doesn’t have a choice and he’s decided to replace the lot. 

He hands Lewis his drink then sits at his desk, switching on the computer as he shrugs off his suit jacket. He takes a swig of coffee. 

“Run that by me again, sir? I could have sworn I heard you offer to whisk me away on a romantic weekend break.”

Lewis snorts. “Hate to disappoint you Sergeant, but in my experience there’s nothing romantic about the Police Federation New Initiatives Conference.”

“Really, sir? Never had a conference fling? A Federation flirtation?”

Lewis shoots him a look. “No! I was married, happily married, as you well know. It was always early to bed with a mug of cocoa and a good book for me when I was away at these kind of things.”

James smirks into his coffee. “No romance. Lashings of cocoa. Understood, sir. Can’t wait. So, when do you take me away from all this?” He sweeps his eyes round the grey, functional office.

Lewis shakes his head. “God help me. The conference is this Saturday in Brighton, but it starts early so we’ll go the night before, straight from work. I know it’s short notice—DI Warren and her sergeant were meant to be going, but her oldest was mucking about yesterday and fell off a swing and broke his arm, so she’s not going anywhere for a while.”

“I see. Did it occur to you that I might already have a social extravaganza of a weekend planned, sir?”

Lewis considers him for a long second then shakes his head. “No, Sergeant. Strangely, it didn’t. Should it have?”

James lets out a short, mirthless laugh. “Probably not.”  


___________________________

  
They don’t have a case on the go so they get away early on Friday, hoping to beat the weekend traffic down to the coast. James carefully places his overnight bag next to Lewis’ in the boot of Lewis’ car and feels a ridiculous twinge of happiness just seeing the two bags next to each other, picturing them shifting about during the drive, brushing against each other. Lewis has taken off his jacket and loosened his tie. He looks relaxed and happy, and James busies himself with sorting out his own jacket to hide the smile that’s tugging at the corners of his mouth. He settles into the passenger seat and stretches out his legs. Lewis grunts softly as he drops into the driver’s seat. It’s a sound that James has heard many times before—a sign that Lewis’ back is complaining about the accumulated strain of the week. James opens his mouth to say something, but can’t come up with anything that doesn’t sound like he monitors Lewis’ every groan and sigh. Instead he slips the compilation CD he worked on last night into the player as they pull out of the station car park.

“Oh, what’s this?”

“Some in-car entertainment sir. Thought conjuring tricks might be difficult to follow while you’re driving.”

“I see. I suppose this is meant to stop me having the two-hour blast of Wagner I’d planned, is it?” Lewis looks stern, but there’s no bite.

“I wouldn’t dream of assuming sir . . . though I might hope . . .”

Lewis chuckles. “Go on then. I’m sure you put many hours thought into exactly how to torture me musically, didn’t you?!”

James shrugs non-committedly as the opening chords of the first song kick in. He’d certainly put the hours in . . . trying to think of tracks that Robbie would enjoy. He knows that his governor is open to trying new things as long as he has a point of reference, as long as there’s some connection to what he already knows and likes. So James has put together a whole CD of great cover versions that Lewis is unlikely to have heard, but of songs that James is convinced Lewis already likes. It was just the kind of musical challenge that James loves, and not only because it’s purpose was to give Lewis pleasure. The task he set himself wasn’t as simple as just coming up with cover versions that Lewis will enjoy. They also have to be songs that work for a car journey. And they can’t be too romantic or personal and therefore inappropriate for a sergeant—this particular sergeant—to be sharing with his inspector. So, amongst other favourites, Hannah Peel’s music-box driven version of Tainted Love is out, though it pained James to exclude it because he thinks Lewis will love it. But it makes James seasick with dread and longing every time he listens to it, so it was never going to see the light of day on this CD. 

Of course, there’s no guarantee that Lewis will actually approve of the things James has included—Lewis can be a tough gig—but that’s OK with James—he’s OK with the feeling that he has to work a little. He’s OK with the squeeze of nerves snaking round his gut, so intimately connected with arousal.

The first track is the Show of Hands version of Boys of Summer. James fiddles with his phone while watching Lewis out of the corner of his eye. He sees recognition, then puzzlement, then finally unmistakable pleasure wash over his boss’ face—Lewis is smiling and nodding in time to the music as he noses the car out of the car park and into the Friday afternoon traffic. And then as if that wasn’t sweet enough, he starts rummaging about on the dashboard for his sunglasses and then puts them on. James has no idea if it’s in response to the song, and if it is, whether it’s conscious or not, but it’s perfect. James puts his sunglasses on too, and faces forward, pressing his lips hard together, clamping down on the soppy smile that’s threatening to ambush him.

There are a couple of hold-ups on the M25 but mostly they make good progress. The CD is an unequivocal success. Once or twice Lewis shoots James a quick questioning look as a new song starts— _I’m not sure I like the sound of this one, Sergeant_ —but each time as the tune or the vocals kick in, he nods and smiles and as often as not is unselfconsciously singing along by the end of the first verse. When the Futurehead’s version of Hounds of Love begins with its rough, almost barked a cappella intro, they’re stuck in stationary traffic, and his boss turns and gives James the full-on Lewis _what the hell?!_ grumpy stare. James knows that Lewis is a major Kate Bush fan, so this could go either way. He meets his boss’ gaze and waits. As the lead singer delivers the first line—his boyish, northeastern voice urgent—Lewis’ mouth falls open and his eyes widen in recognition—and then—and then he laughs out loud, utterly delighted. He doesn’t actually say anything to James, but his astonished, admiring smile is everything. 

When the CD finally comes to an end, they settle into a comfortable silence. James lets his mind wander to this evening—a shared meal, a couple of drinks. They spend evenings together in Oxford of course, but there’s something about being away together, staying in a hotel in an unfamiliar town, that makes it feel different, more intimate, somehow. He can almost pretend to himself that they both chose this, to be here together alone.

He’s pulled out of his musings by Lewis asking him to switch on the sat nav to guide them through the outskirts of Brighton to their hotel. A quarter of an hour later Lewis is reversing into a space in the hotel car park. They collect their bags and head for reception. There are seagulls wheeling overhead and everything about the quality of the light and the air say that the sea is very close. James can’t remember the last time he saw the sea. Maybe he can tempt Lewis to a stroll along the beach after dinner? Or would that look too romantic, too much? Sometimes he doesn’t trust his judgement about things like this, so he errs on the side of distance and facetiousness—on balance better for Lewis to think he’s a bit aloof, a bit of a smug bastard, than for him to think something else equally true and even less palatable.


	2. A Change of Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, things take a turn for the angst today. But as the Sufi poets used to say "This too shall pass."
> 
> See you tomorrow for a much longer final chapter.

Lewis strolls up to the desk and smiles at the receptionist. “Rooms booked by Oxfordshire Police, originally in the names of Warren and Kapoor, thanks.” 

The receptionist checks the database, then checks again. It’s with a small, tight smile that she looks up. “We only have a booking for one room from Oxfordshire Police—for Warren. There’s no booking for Kapoor. Could you be mistaken sir?” 

Robbie gets her to check again. She swivels the computer monitor round to show him the booking, and it’s clearly for one room, booked six weeks ago by Innocent’s PA, Janice. It’s too late now to get hold of Janice—she’ll have left the office an hour ago, as will the Chief Super herself. Lewis sighs and turns to James, who’s been hovering at his right shoulder, holding their bags. “I’ll just have to pay for another room meself now, and hope that Innocent will OK it on Monday.”

He turns back to the receptionist, who isn’t even managing the smile now. “I’m so sorry sir. We’re completely full with conference delegates—all the town hotels are. We’ve been booked-up for weeks. But”—she checks back at the monitor—“the room you have is a large twin—it’s got two double beds.” The smile’s back, trying to appease him. “And it’s got a lovely sea view.”

“No!” James is as taken aback by Lewis’ exclamation as the poor receptionist. “We can’t share. You must have something. I don’t mind if it’s a broom cupboard—it’s only for one night.” James glances at him, stunned at how adamant Lewis is. Lewis is frowning and he’s rubbing one of his shoulders, as if the thought of sharing the room is causing him actual physical pain.

The receptionist glances uneasily to James and back to Lewis. “I’m really sorry sir—we really have nothing free.”

“I want to speak to the manager.” Lewis is still civil but he looks shockingly pissed-off. And James _is_ shocked—at how horrified Lewis plainly is at the thought of having to share a room with him for one night. It’s hard not to take it personally. The woman behind the desk has said it’s a large room. It’s not like they’d be sharing a bed for God’s sake. Is the thought really that awful? Clearly it is. He can’t think about it right now, standing in this hotel foyer with a queue of coppers forming behind them, and the receptionist shooting him curious looks, wondering what it is about him that’s so unacceptable. Lewis himself appears to be oblivious to anything other than his mission to procure a second room. James pulls in a sharp breath through his nose and then does what he can to swallow down his feelings, smoothing his face into an impassive mask.

The manager is called over and confirms that there definitely are no vacant rooms in the hotel. Lewis then insists that calls are made to other local hotels to check their situation. By the fifth call he has to accept that there really are no rooms to be had. The look of grim resignation on his face as he turns to James—acknowledging him for the first time in twenty minutes—leaves lead in James’ guts. It’s humiliating. Lewis heads for the lift, shoulders hunched like he’s a condemned man heading for the gallows. James follows behind with the bags, wishing he were anywhere but here.

The room is beautiful. It’s as big as was promised, with two tall windows facing the sea. The golden light of early evening is streaming in—the same light that’s shimmering on the waves that James can see washing up the pebble beach 100 yards beyond the lawn at the front of the hotel. James hates it all. 

Lewis drops his stuff onto the bed nearest the door then mumbles something about having a wash. He disappears into the en suite and James sinks down onto his own bed. His chest is tight. He’s desperate for a smoke. He’d bought some patches for the weekend, thought that maybe he’d try to do without cigarettes so that his clothes wouldn’t smell of smoke. Well fuck that. He rummages in his bag, finds a battered box with four fags left in it, grabs his lighter and the key and slams the door behind him. He finds a quiet spot in the shade of a concrete wall to the side of the hotel and lights up, sucking the smoke in like his survival depends on it. 

He knows that his feelings for Lewis are not reciprocated. Of course he bloody knows that—he’s not stupid. He never expected them to be. But he did think that Lewis liked him, felt comfortable with him, despite all the comments about him being a smartarse and a show-off. But this? This—he doesn’t even know what this is. What exactly makes him such an undesirable roommate? Being a subordinate officer? Being a facetious bastard? Being sexually ambiguous? Fuck knows. What the hell does Lewis think he’ll do? Crawl into his bed in the middle of the night and molest him? He might have thought about something along those lines from time to time, but he’s more likely to bloody propose to Hooper than actually do it. _For fuck’s sake._

He lights the second cig from the butt of the first and smokes it furiously. He replays the scene in the hotel lobby in his mind, and it doesn’t look any better for repeated viewing. He eyes the last two cigarettes in the pack but sighs and shoves them back in his pocket. He’s got to go back up to the room in a fit state to get through the evening, and four cigs in fifteen minutes is not going to help with that—he feels queasy enough as it is. In any case, putting off going back isn’t going to make it any better. He resigns himself to the inevitable shit night ahead of him, in much the same way as he resigns himself when they’ve got a grim night of corpses and confusion ahead of them. Feels about the same.

When he lets himself back into the room, Lewis is sitting on the edge of his bed, hunched over his mobile. He glances up at James, looking a bit awkward—doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Wondered where you’d got to. Just texted Christine Warren to find out why the hell she only had one room booked. Apparently Kapoor has family in Brighton—he was going to stay with them for the night.” He sits up straight, rolling his shoulders, grimacing. “Come on. Get yourself washed up and let’s get a pint before dinner.” It’s not exactly their usual snappy banter, and it’s certainly not an apology, but it’s something. James grabs his wash-bag and does as he’s told.

His interest in exploring the delights of Brighton with his boss withered and died in the foyer, and Lewis seems equally disinclined to venture far, so they have a pint in the hotel bar and then order food off the bar menu. James struggles to come up with much to say other than commenting on the food (mushroom risotto—average), and the bar clientele (mainly coppers—noisy and getting steadily more drunk). Lewis grunts answers but is evidently floundering as much as James. They spend the rest of the evening mostly in silence, drinking beer and watching other people having increasingly raucous fun. Just before ten Lewis stretches and yawns and announces that he’s knackered and is going to turn in. James, although not in any way looking forward to going up, can see no attraction to sitting in the bar on his own, surrounded by happy, inebriated coppers, so reluctantly he follows Lewis up to the room.

They’re overly polite with each other as they get ready for bed—carefully negotiating use of the bathroom and what time to set the alarm for the morning. What had given him a flutter of excitement yesterday—the thought of wandering around a bedroom in just his boxers and a t-shirt in front of Lewis, now just leaves James feeling embarrassed and self-conscious. And seeing Lewis emerge from the bathroom dressed in pyjamas with a t-shirt under his pyjama jacket just pisses him off. _Really? Lewis really feels the need to wear several layers in front of him at all times? Can’t possibly risk his sergeant glimpsing an inch of flesh. Jesus._ Finally they’re both in bed and Lewis turns off his bedside lamp, with a rather stiff “Night, Sergeant.”


	3. Magpie Wing and Starling Belly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter - in which all is made clear. Hopefully!

James lies awake under the duvet, eyes wide open in the heavy darkness. Adrenaline is hissing and fizzing through him—he knows he won’t be getting to sleep any time soon. He’s intensely aware that just six feet away Lewis is also in bed, and if the quiet shifts in position and occasional sigh are an indication, he’s also struggling to get to sleep. James runs the events of the last few hours through his mind repeatedly, but can’t make them any more understandable, or any less painful. He knows that he’s tested Lewis’ patience on many occasions, but on each occasion Lewis has not only appeared to forgive him, but even—through his kindness (shown through action more than words)—enabled James to go some way to forgive himself. Perhaps he’s taken this extraordinary generosity for granted? Perhaps he’s imagined a trust, a closeness that was never really there? Perhaps he always was no more than a barely-tolerated subordinate but just didn’t want to see it? And so the thoughts spin and whirl in his mind—out-of-control satellites, tumbling at sickening speed as they plummet to earth. 

Almost an hour later, James hears Lewis get out of bed then sees his shadowy form move towards the bathroom. The bathroom door closes, the lock clicks shut, and a thin strip of light appears along the bottom of the door. He can hear Lewis rustling about and he really doesn’t want to have to listen to his boss pee. He tries to focus his attention on the sound of the waves he can hear faintly through the window but it’s no use—every noise from the bathroom is clearly audible in the quiet of the late evening.

Then he hears what sounds like a groan, like someone in pain. He sits up in bed, alert, straining to hear, but everything is silent again except for the hammering of his own heart. He’s just about to lie back down when he hears it again. Lewis definitely groaned. It’s muffled, like he’s trying not to be heard, but it definitely sounded like he’s in pain.

James switches his bedside lamp on. His mind is racing, trying to make sense of what he can hear. Is Lewis ill? Is he—Christ no—is he having a wank?! Everything goes quiet. A minute passes, two minutes, then suddenly James hears the clatter of something—maybe their shampoo bottles—hitting the floor, and Lewis swearing. James is out of bed and at the bathroom door before he can even register what he’s doing. All is quiet again and he hesitates—caught between anxiety and embarrassment. The chances are that whatever’s going on, his boss will not be pleased if James interferes, but God, if Lewis is having a heart attack and he does nothing . . .

He presses his ear to the door—he can hear Lewis moving about a bit in the small space on the other side, muttering to himself—what the hell is he doing? He taps softly. “Sir? Are you all right?”

The muttering and moving about stop. James holds his breath. 

“Go back to bed man! I’m fine.” Lewis sounds monumentally irritable.

James waits, standing motionless in the dark. He rubs a hand over his face—then jumps when the next crash happens and Lewis cries “Oh, for God’s sake!” The clatter didn’t sound like Lewis falling over, but something is definitely not right.

“Sir!” His voice is strangled and too loud in the dark. It’s quiet again for so long that James is actually thinking about the best way to break the door down when he hears a resigned: 

“OK! OK. Hold on.” 

He hears Lewis move towards the door and unlock it, but it doesn’t open. James hesitates.

“Go on then.” It’s more of a growl than anything else.

James pushes on the handle and opens the door carefully.

The florescent light is harsh to his night-adjusted eyes and he automatically lowers his gaze. There are a couple of shampoo and shower gel bottles lying in the middle of the floor. Lewis’ t-shirt and pyjama top are balled up next to them, along with some sort of . . . . corset? Off-white, medical looking—James doesn’t know what it is. He looks up at his boss, who’s standing as far back in the small bathroom as he can, backside pressed against the washbasin. Lewis is wearing just his pyjama bottoms, his bare feet pale against the dark floor tiles. His arms are folded tightly across his chest . . . and his massive black wings are partially unfurled—as much as is possible—the primary feathers jammed against the two side walls of the tiny room.

“Fuck, wings! Sir! Shit. Sorry.” For half a minute James stares, shocked into silence. Of course he knows there are winged people. He’s seen photographs; watched the famous BBC documentary that was on telly a couple of years ago and from that learned how rare the genetic mutation for wings is. He’s also aware of a raging ethical debate about research into genetic markers for the condition, with the possibility of foetal detection likely to be available within the next five years, with all the implications that go with that. 

But he’s never met anyone . . . well, he’d thought he’d never met anyone. And the wings are huge—he can’t see how they can possibly fold small enough to be hidden inside clothing. How can he possibly not have noticed? But it’s obvious really. He’s never noticed because Lewis has had a lifetime’s practice hiding his wings. Because he never releases them from their binding (James assumes that’s what the thing on the floor is) in public. Because Lewis is an expert at keeping his winged status secret. Which implies that he can only ever release his wings when he’s alone. So he can only ever really be comfortable when he’s alone. _Christ_. No wonder Lewis was beside himself when he realised he wouldn’t have a room to himself. He thought he’d have to keep his wings strapped to his back all night, having already had a full day of that. 

James is wrenched from his musings by Lewis sighing. He looks directly at his boss’ face for the first time since he opened the bathroom door and is pained by what he sees. He’d expected irritation, and certainly Lewis is frowning—deep lines etched on his face. But what makes James’ heart hurt is that everything about Lewis’ body language and facial expression says embarrassment—shame even. And of course on top of that he’s clearly in a lot of physical discomfort, with his wings crammed into the too small space of the bathroom. 

“Sir.” James smiles softly. “I think you should come out here and stretch those. Looks a bit uncomfortable.” He steps back into the bedroom, giving his boss some space. Lewis looks unsure, glances down at the corset contraption on the floor, but then sighing once again carefully folds his wings up—grimacing as he does—and pulls them in towards his body. He then tucks them so tightly against his back that an astonished James can’t see them from the front, once he’s done.

Lewis walks slowly out of the bathroom and goes to stand between the two beds, opposite James, who turns to face him. Lewis’ arms are still folded tight across his chest.

James encourages him. “Go on, sir. You haven’t had a chance to stretch them all day. No wonder you wanted a room to yourself. Must have been a real blow when you realised you’d have to share. And there I was, worried that it was the thought of my snoring that had you so reluctant.”

Lewis lets out a little huff of breath—not quite a laugh but at least an acknowledgement that he knows James is trying. 

“You must get terribly achy by the end of the day.” 

Lewis looks up, meets his gaze for the first time—just looks at him, trying to read him. James smiles back and hopes that his expression conveys the tenderness he’s feeling. And Lewis must see something in James’ expression because eventually he nods, and then cautiously, painfully unfolds his wings and fully extends them. James would have watched them unfurl but for being completely mesmerised by the look of bliss that forms on his boss’ face as he finally, fully stretches. _Fuck. What would it feel like to be the focus of that expression? To be the cause of that expression?_

They stand in silence for a minute or two. Lewis unfolds his arms, and gradually eases and stretches the well-developed muscles of his upper back and shoulders. James can’t take his eyes off him. 

“Better, sir?”

“Yes thank you, James.” Lewis sounds stiff and formal. He clears his throat. “I assume you didn’t know—hadn’t worked it out?”

“No! I, I didn’t have a clue. Honestly, sir.”

“Good. I always worry that everyone—you, Laura, everyone round the nick—know, and you’re all pretending just to humour me.”

“No! I don’t think anyone . . . well no one has ever said anything . . .”

They stand in silence for a while longer, but James can’t help himself:

“I know you’re very private, and you wouldn’t like . . . all the fuss . . . but it must be a nightmare trying to keep them secret. Have you ever thought of just letting people see? People who know you, who care about you?”

Lewis shoots him a look of utter incredulity. “You think I keep them secret because I don’t want a bit of fuss?!” He shakes his head. “Bit of fuss! Try ridicule! Disgust even! How d’ya think people would react? _You_ can’t even bring yourself to look at them.” 

And it’s true—James hasn’t been looking at Robbie’s wings for the last few minutes. He’s been staring at his chest. Heat rises through James’ cheeks and he’s glad that the room is lit by a dim, solitary lamp. _Shit._

“No. No! It’s not that I don’t want to look at your, your . . . wings, it’s just that I . . .”—he turns away, mortified. He can’t say it . . . but he has to say it, because if he doesn’t, Lewis will be left believing that James is repulsed by his wings, by this secret part of him that he’s kept hidden away all these years. James would rather suffer the consequences—however painful—of opening his mouth now, than have Lewis think that. He looks down, focussing on a small mark on the carpet, and says in little more than a whisper: “It’s just . . . I might have a thing for chests.”

Lewis glares at him. “You’re taking the mickey.”

James still can’t look at him. “If you say so.”

The silence between them is palpable. Lewis stares at him, eyes wide.

“What? You like . . . ?”

James rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, cheeks now a deep, hot red. “Apparently.”

Then Lewis snorts. A proper, amused snort. He scratches his head. “So, you’re telling me that I’ve just whipped out a ruddy great pair of wings—wings you knew nothing about ten minutes ago, and all you want to do is ogle me chest?!”

James sighs. “That appears to be the long and short of it, sir.”

And then Lewis is laughing, really laughing. And James, for all his hideous embarrassment, can’t help laughing too. He’s giddy with relief—perhaps they’re going to be ok. Lewis is still Lewis—his gruff, warm, governor—apparently he doesn’t hate James, he can still laugh with him—even at a time like this. James risks a glance up. As Lewis laughs, his wings—which he’s still got at full spread—shake and rustle a little, the tips of the primary and secondary feathers trembling and shimmering in the soft lamplight. And God, that gets James’ attention. He swallows. 

“Would it be ok if I looked now, sir? I’ve never . . .” His words die on his tongue and he could kick himself as he watches Lewis tense up. But after a moment or two Lewis lets out a breath, his shoulders sag slightly, and he nods. James moves slowly towards him. He starts at the extreme tip of the right wing, the one nearest the lamp. Close up, James sees that the feathers aren’t uniformly black at all. They’re glossy coal and sooty grey. They’re storm clouds and the night sea. They’re the iridescent black/blue/green of a thousand magpie wings and starling bellies.

“You’re magnificent.” He says it before he even realises he’s thinking it.

Lewis splutters. “I may be many things James, but I think we both know that magnificent isn’t one of them. I doubt these”—he curls his lip with distaste—“eyesores, make it any more likely.”

James is shocked by the certainty, the bitterness even, of Lewis’ pronouncement. He has to argue the point.

“Sir, I can see that they’re an inconvenience, that they must make your life complicated in a dozen different ways.” He pauses, thinking. “They must have marked you out as . . . different when you were young, and I know something about how unpleasant that can be. But . . .” He’s searching for the right words, desperate not to cause offence or pain. “But just looking at them aesthetically, surely you can see how beautiful they are? Surely your wife? Family?”

Lewis sinks down onto the edge of his bed, pulling in the tips of his wings so as not to brush them against the alarm clock and glass of water on top of the bedside cabinet. He spreads his fingers out flat on his thighs and contemplates them. Eventually he looks up at James.

“Me Mam and Dad loved me, wings ‘n’ all, no doubt about it. But they made sure they didn’t treat me as anything special—for my sake as much as our Alan’s, I suppose. I think they saw the wings as an inconvenient medical condition really—not a big problem—something you just got on with—but not something you’d want the neighbours to know about either. They knew I’d get teased at school if the other kids knew, so I grew up leading a bit of a double life. I had good mates, I had a good time at school, but I always knew I had to keep me secret. Kids can be cruel, and I grew up in no doubt about the kind of hell I’d come in for if they ever knew. Me Mam invented a back problem for me so I could have a bit of control over what I did and didn’t do in games—not even the school knew the truth. Ironic that years of having these things strapped to me all day has given me a bad back.”

James settles quietly on the edge of the other bed. For all he can be more chatty and sociable than James, it’s not like Lewis to talk about personal things. James realises he’s holding his breath, so desperate is he for Lewis to carry on. 

“When I was older I got on OK with girls—went on a few dates. Worried a lot though, about how I was ever going to”—he rubs the back of his neck and smiles a little embarrassed smile—“go further than holding hands.” He’s quiet for a while. When he starts again, his voice is soft, wistful. “Then I met Val”—he shakes his head as if even after all these years he can’t quite believe his luck—“and I just stopped worrying. I knew from the start that everything was going to be all right—and it was. She didn’t mind the wings at all. Used to rub me back for me at the end of the day when it ached. She’d encourage me to fly when we were on holiday somewhere where there was a bit of space and privacy—said it was good for me to take to the air—leave all the worries and responsibilities on the ground for a while.” 

_Flying!_ James has somehow managed to completely overlook the fact that the function of wings, the sole purpose of having wings, is to be able to snap them open and beat them and launch yourself towards the heavens. James nearly gasps out loud at the thought of Lewis flying—soaring over fields and woods, virtually invisible against the inky night sky. 

“She used to grumble about stray feathers clogging up the Hoover sometimes, but it was just her way of making it all ordinary, domestic.” He frowns slightly. “I don’t think she found them particularly attractive—but she loved _me_ , and that was all that mattered. She was the only one I . . .” He turns his head away. “It didn’t matter whether she liked them much or not—what mattered was that I never had to hide anything from her.”

He looks directly across at James now, his eyes narrowed, tension around his mouth and jaw. 

“So to answer your question, Sergeant—no—no one ever thought these things were beautiful or magnificent or anything else ridiculous—and it didn’t matter a damn.” 

They sit in the dim light, each lost in their own thoughts for a while. Eventually Lewis stands up, and flicks his primaries in a gesture that surely says _enough of this._

“Anyway. That’s all over now. Stupid, going on about it.” He folds his arms tightly across his chest once more. “Though I’m sure you’ve got plenty to say on the subject.” He stares at James, waiting.

James opens his mouth to speak, but manages to clamp it shut again before he actually says something, because God knows there is not one thought in his head right now that it would be acceptable to share. Not one thing that will not shock or sicken his governor. Lewis of course doesn’t miss a thing.

“If you’ve got something to say James, just say it.”

“Nothing, sir, I assure you.” But he looks down, can’t meet Lewis’ eyes.

Lewis sounds exasperated. “So that’s what nothing looks like, is it?” 

“Really, sir, my mind is an empty vessel, a hollow tree, a . . .” He scrabbles around, trying to cover his panic with words. James stands up, intending to go to the bathroom or get into bed—anything to get away. Lewis isn’t fooled for a minute.

“You? An empty mind? Really? I find that hard to believe! No sarky comments, no bloody Shakespeare for me? For God’s sake man, there’s nothing you can say, no matter how crass or facetious, that I haven’t heard or thought a hundred times before. You can just imagine what our Mark was like about . . . all this . . . when he was a teenager! God, the things he used to call me . . . There really is nothing you can say that’ll surprise or offend me.”

“I wouldn’t count on that, sir.” It’s almost a whisper. 

And suddenly it’s clear that Lewis has reached the limits of his patience. It’s one in the morning, it’s been a very trying evening, and he looks knackered. 

“Let’s have it, Sergeant.” It sounds a lot like an order.

James’ heart is pounding in his chest, he still feels panicky, but when he finally lifts his head and looks at Lewis, his face wears a mask of resignation.

“Fine. But you insisted. You’re not going to like it. I wouldn’t have ever said . . .”

“Sergeant!”

Right. This is it then. “Fine.” James releases a breath audibly. Even as he opens his mouth he’s still trying to think of something—anything but the truth—but nothing comes. So in the end, the truth it has to be. He looks Lewis directly in the eye.

“I’ve had an image running through my mind since the moment I saw . . . your wings. ” He stops. Lewis shoots him an impatient look.

“Well, out with it then.”

“I am very sorry, sir.” He takes a breath. “I keep imagining . . . you, you’re lying on your back on the bed. Dressed as you are now.” He tilts his chin up—trying to give himself the courage to say what comes next. He has to look away. “I’m lying on top of you, my head on your chest. Lying in your arms. Your wings are folded round me, cocooning me, sheltering me.” He unconsciously shuts his eyes—picturing, feeling. “I can feel the softness of your feathers brushing against my back, my legs. I feel utterly safe, wrapped in your soft wings, hidden in the dark of them.”

“ _Jesus._ ” Lewis stares at him for a full minute without another word. Then:

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

James glances at him. He nods, miserably. 

“Christ, James.” They look across at each other in the soft light. Eventually Lewis shakes his head and frowns.

“So, you’ve what, you’ve got a thing about wings?”

“No! Really, no.” James cracks a little self-mocking smile. Nothing left to hide now—for good or bad, both of them are revealed. “I’ve got a thing about _you._ Your wings just make you . . . more you, somehow.”

Lewis is shaking his head again—looks like he can’t believe a word he’s hearing. 

“Don’t worry, sir. It’s OK. I don’t expect anything; I know you don’t . . . you’re not attracted to men.”

Lewis raises an eyebrow. “Oh, you do, do you?”

James’ eyes widen. “I thought. That is. What are you saying?!”

Lewis holds his hands up—palms facing James—looking mildly amused.

“Steady, Sergeant. I’m not saying anything really. Just don’t like the idea of you assuming you know everything about my . . . preferences. All the ins and outs, so to speak.” There’s a hint of a rueful smile.

“To be honest I’ve never given it—blokes—much thought, either way. That probably sounds terrible, but I’ve always known I fancied women, and Val was so lovely, and it just never occurred to me to think about anything—anyone—else.”

“Understood, sir.” 

So that’s that then. Message received loud and clear. Lewis miraculously doesn’t seem to be offended or disgusted, but he’s also—entirely predictably—not interested. James feels weary to his bones and painfully exposed. He just wants to hide in the dark for a few hours before he has to face all this again in daylight. He starts to move away, but Lewis puts his hands up to stop him. 

“Hold on! Give me a minute.” He goes quiet for what feels like an eternity to James, who’s standing awkwardly between their two beds, barely able to breathe.

When Lewis eventually speaks, he sounds awkward and gruff, but there’s warmth there too. “Look—it’s been a rough night—for both of us. I’m knackered—too knackered to have a conversation like this. But . . . I haven’t cuddled anyone in years, and I miss it—really miss it. No idea what it’d be like with a bloke though. Might be a bit odd.” He pauses and then his voice softens. “But I suppose you and me have coped with all kinds of strange situations together, haven’t we? What d’ya reckon?” 

James looks at him questioningly, trying to parse this rambling speech. He can’t quite believe what he thinks he’s heard.

“You’re saying you want a cuddle?!”

“Only if that’s what . . . if that’s OK. Nothing more than a cuddle, mind. Well, definitely not without a lot of thought and talk that really isn’t going to happen tonight.” Lewis looks utterly embarrassed.

James is too stunned to move, but eventually he manages to shake himself and takes the two steps to the side of Lewis’ bed, a smile twisting one corner of his mouth up.

“A cuddle would be good, sir.” The smile shifts to a smirk as he sees the look of exasperation on Lewis’ face.

“You can cut that out, for a start! I don’t need you calling me sir in bed.”

“But it’s not all about your needs in bed, is it, _sir_?”

Lewis lies down on the bed, looking more like his usual grumpy self. 

“James, shut up and get over here, will you?”

James allows himself a moment to savour the thrill of Lewis ordering him into bed, then does as he’s told, taking care not to crush Lewis’s wings which are currently spread out flat, extending several feet either side of the bed. He hesitates once he’s on the bed, unsure how to close the last bit of distance between them, but Lewis opens his arms, making it clear that James should snuggle up—and who is James to argue with that? 

After a bit of trial and error, trying to find the most comfy position, they end up with James half lying on Lewis, half plastered to his side, his head resting on Lewis’ bare chest. Lewis wraps his arms round James shoulders, which feels shockingly good to James, and apparently not too bad to Lewis too, going on his contented sigh. Lewis brings one of his hands up to the back of James’ head and starts to idly stroke his short, almost fur-like hair.

And then, as if this isn’t already heaven, Lewis partially folds his wings and slides them round James, the soft feathers stroking and tickling James’ bare legs and arms as Lewis gets them comfortable. James groans out loud—he just can’t help it—and he feels more than hears Lewis’ chuckle in response.

“It’s that good, huh?”

“You have _no_ idea.”

There’s a beat of silence before Lewis replies.

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s not too rough from this end, either.”

James releases a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, and allows himself to sink even further into Lewis’ embrace, burying the grin he apparently has no control over, in the hair and skin of Lewis’ chest. He lies in the soft, protective darkness of Lewis’ vast wings, surrounded by his scent and touch.

James really wants to stay awake—all through the night if possible—to revel in every moment, but he’s exhausted and finally relaxed, and it’s inevitable that he starts to doze. But just as he’s drifting off, Lewis says:

“Are you sure this isn’t some weird Catholic thing about angels?”

James snorts. “You may be many things sir, but I think we both know that angelic isn’t one of them.”

Lewis pulls him in even closer: “Nah, I suppose you’ve got a point. Night, James.”

“Sleep well, sir.”

And it is true that for James this isn’t a Catholic thing, per se. Mostly, it’s an inevitable Lewis thing—in all honesty, he’s been the sun at the centre of James’ universe since the first case they worked on together; James’ primary source of light and warmth; his centre of gravity. But there is another truth, which doesn’t in any way negate this first one. When James was 13 he went to London for the day on a school trip to various museums and art galleries. One piece of art from that trip has stayed with him across the decades—Epstein’s Jacob and the Angel. Standing before it, towered over by the massive, naked, muscular angel holding an also naked Jacob tight to his chest, James had his first experience of a work of art having a physical effect on him—his heart sped up, his breathing quickened—his eager, adolescent cock filled, just looking up at Jacob being held in that powerful, angelic embrace. Standing in the centre of a public art gallery with schoolboys shouting and milling around him, he had an epiphany—of a sexual as much as a spiritual sort. Even at that age he knew the story of Jacob and the angel, of how God had made Jacob fight an unknown assailant all night, and in the morning, to reward him for not giving up, God had revealed his attacker to be the tough, formidable angel now supporting him. And looking at that sculpture as a lanky teenager, and every time he has visited it since, James has never quite been able to tell if Epstein intended to depict the fight and struggle, or the loving embrace. What he has come to understand though, is that whatever Epstein intended, what James himself takes from this work, and what James himself needs in life, is both; the challenge and the support. And what he also knows is that there has only ever been one person who has offered both to him. And right now—to his astonishment and joy—he is lying wrapped in the soft shelter of that man’s wings, drifting into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fantastic piece of sculpture that James fell in love with as a teenager is "Jacob and the Angel" by Jacob Epstein. It's at Tate Britain in London.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Two Turtle Doves](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6739267) by [Evenlodes_Friend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evenlodes_Friend/pseuds/Evenlodes_Friend)




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